


Imperial

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Blood, Dark fic, General all around awfulness, Gore, M/M, Murder, nastiness, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6825874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does Hux want? Everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperial

There are certain things to be said for mass genocide, and for taking over the galaxy. Admittedly, Kylo hadn’t been entirely convinced that it was the way forward for many years. The Leader, Snoke, had won him on a technicality, and his loyalty had - if he was being honest - never been _complete_. It was more the war of attrition that had born down heavily on his head, the constant _dripdripdrip_ of evil intent and power irrefutable. And Kylo - then _Ben_ \- had given way under the inexorable strength of the other. It was not a real victory. It was a stop-gap, analogous to a save point in a holo-game. You got to temporary safety, but you knew it wasn’t the end of the game.

Back then, he’d been a child, of course. And children know less about the world, even if they’re sure they know more. And he’d laboured furiously for the distant, overbearing replacement father-figure, and never felt that he was enough for _him_ , either. He’d felt like he’d never be good enough for someone. Too _Dark_ for one, too _weak_ for the other. A broken thing, fluttering in the winds of contrary opinion and desire. Too empty inside to be his own person, too hollowed-out with scratch-marks muddying his surface to be of any use.

But it had all started to make _sense_ when he stopped putting Snoke on any more pedestals than the man already literally sat atop. He was flawed. Powerful, yes. Formidable, most assuredly.

Infallible, indomitable, invincible? _No._

To begin with, his seditious thoughts had been kept to himself. Smothered deep under a liar’s mask, under loud thoughts to distract. Skulked around in the shadows, full of misguided fury and impotent rage. Dark thoughts that meant the unease and distrust could go unchecked because he was so busy **hating** that the _what_ didn’t matter so much.

And every day he thought worse of the Leader, and remained unchecked, he became more convinced he was a sham, a phony, a false leader. A puppet king, or a puppeteer who had lost the dexterity in their hands, and whose spasmodic death-scenes were progressively degenerating to anarchy.

And then - then - _Hux_. 

They had not got along well. Kylo understands better, now. Understands that their initial antagonism had been half-testing the water, half-pulling in opposite directions. The things that had once driven him to the brink of distraction are now the things he likes most about him, and their clashing styles work wonders.

The death of the Leader had been evidence enough. Kylo had thrown down his head at his General’s feet, then declared him Emperor of an Empire that didn’t technically exist again, yet. And Hux - with his machinations and his battalions and his ambition and drive - had accepted the challenge with aplomb.

Of course.

Several star-systems later… _most_ star systems later… and all that held out was the tiny core hub of the Republic. They hadn’t even needed a new planet-destroying superweapon. They didn’t _need_ one. Hux on his own was analogous to five, or more. 

But here they are, with most of the galaxy cowering in love and despair, and the blowhards all retreated to the Senate Hall. Forced, by their own rules, to admit the Leader of the Empire, because of a legal technicality. Hux had himself voted Senator for several planets before they ruled he could only represent one, and he demanded an emergency hearing with his multiple ballots and vetoes in check. 

“Watch me… I’ll take it all.”  


“You’ve already taken most of the galaxy. How is this going to impress me?” Kylo had goaded, gently.  


“Oh? You want more impressive? Then I’ll do it in _heels_.”  


Why the hell not.

So they stand in the Senate Hall, in one of those ridiculous floating pods. Kylo wonders if the heels were actually to make him look taller, as he had several inches on the Ge- the _General-Emperor-Senator_. Hux. Maybe. Or maybe it was just to demonstrate how little he cared for their convention as his elegant legs clip-clipped into his booth.

“We do not recognise your authority,” a Rodian burbles, in his native tongue.  


“I don’t need you to. You’re not going to be around long enough to matter.”  


The security guards Hux had bought out then draw their blasters, and start the mass slaughter of the remaining Senators. Kylo flips out and onto the nose of the bubble, waiting first to see if any of the other Senators had brought illicit weaponry (and thus Hux might appreciate his defence), but when it becomes clear they’re all sitting targets, he leaps out and joins in the fracas. 

It’s a pleasant diversion, killing them. Here, in this vaulted cathedral to ideals of a mother long-abandoned, a life long-dead. He recognises some of the faces as he slices and solders through them, and by the time he’s finished, Hux has moved up to the Chancellor’s position. The Chancellor, who is restrained by two guards and bleating pathetically about the darkness or something inconsequential… 

Kylo stands back, respectful in his distance, as he watches Hux tower above the man. The guards push him down, down to his knees, down until he’s face-flat on the podium… and Hux applies the stiletto of his heel to the man’s neck. Pressure, pressure… then a scream before it slides in and blood spurts everywhere. Kylo is impressed the heel held up, but it’s designed to carry the weight of a fully grown man, and soft skin and tissue is not.

They are all dead, now, and Hux’s eyes glitter in the light. Kylo watches with giddy hunger, knowing without having to reach that this display of power has left Hux _high_ from it. His pale cheeks are flushed with lust, and the bought guards all step back. The Chancellor is dragged from the podium, and Kylo smiles.

They’ve done it, after all. They’ve murdered freedom and democracy. They’ve taken over _everything_ and **everyone**. When he’d asked Hux what it would take to convince him of his loyalty, the man had asked for one thing: _everything_. And Kylo swore, then and there, that he’d give it to him. That he’d show him he was done with running. That he’d picked his forever-side, at last, and would stop at nothing to stay in his favour.

Democracy - government - lies scorched, blasted, and heeled to death around them. The scent of charred flesh, chitin, exoskeleton. The reek of piss, fear, copper-bright blood and resignation. Ozone-smell, and the eerie quiet of death. Only half the number of breathing lungs and windpipes of before, and no clamouring voices.

Kylo looks to Hux - still perched high on those sinful, killer heels - and throws himself to his knees in the puddle of blood. Not his own, but it doesn’t matter. His saber turned off, he kneels in the pool and lets it soak into his black fabric. Doesn’t resist when the coutured foot pushes him down, down, down. Into a suppliant’s position, hands in the muck, further down until his turned cheek lies in the cooling fluid.

“Is it enough, my Emperor?” he asks, as he feels his hair get sticky with another man’s death.

“Almost. If you’re going to be mine forever, then there’s one thing left I need of you.”

“ _Anything_ ,” he replies, fervent and heartfelt. He doesn’t fight the position, uncomfortable as it is. Head down, breathing slow and even, and for long moments nothing happens.  


“If you’re going to be by my side, then I’m making you my bride. And do you know what that means?”  


 _Well, normally the bride doesn’t have a cock and balls_ , Kylo thinks. He shakes his head, not sure what Hux actually intends.

“It means I make sure you’re mine and only mine, by feeling for your hymen, and then breeding you like the bitch you are. And then - when you’re mine, and spoiled, and broken - I’ll use my power to claim you for the whole world to see.”  


Kylo definitely does not have a hymen, and Hux knows full well that he’s no longer a virgin. He popped that particular cherry long since. “And if I’m not suitable?”

Hux sneers down at him, and Kylo shudders in disgusted delight.

“ _Let’s hope you are_.”  


Kylo remains in position until the shoe moves, and obeys the minute he’s told to strip. He no longer wears his mask, now the Leader is gone, but the rest has remained as-is. His hands slip clothes off, and they’re all getting messy, now. Hux won’t mind, won’t care at all if the black fabric creaks and splinters dried gore as Kylo walks. He bares himself utterly, and lies, prostrate, on the floor.

Arms down against his face, palms on the floor, legs parted slightly, breathing.

There are _so many people watching this._ Watching as Hux drops to a kneel and drags a gloved finger between his cheeks. Kylo parts his legs wider, tilts his hips slightly, and then there’s a tug to the plug deep inside him. Hux _knows_ he’s not a virgin. He shoved this very plug into him first thing this morning. It ends in a stamped version of his insignia, claiming him as owned like everything else does. He tilts and moans as it’s pushed in, then pulled out in one fast, hard **pluck**. His hole protests, and he feels empty.

“So far, you’re a slut,” Hux coos, appreciatively, as he bends two fingers in to grope and feel.   


“For you, my Lord.”  


“Still a slut. Why would I sully myself with that?”  


Why, indeed. Kylo’s stomach falls out of his body. He’s used goods. He’s bent over so many times he’s practically hinged in two, and he’s probably so loose he’s no fun to fuck, right? A sad noise, and he drops his head. “You… shouldn’t.”

Three fingers, and he’s rewarded for his honesty with a pressure against his prostate. He doesn’t deserve it, and he _moans_ at the sensation, his toes wriggling as he tries to hold still.

“You’re right. I _shouldn’t_. You’re a filthy, filthy cockslut, aren’t you? A cumdumpster. A little sex-mad-moron…”   


He is, he’s all of those things, and he’s humping the hand inside of him, wanting more. He can reduce him this fast, make his brave public face crumble so easily. All these people seeing the Master of the Knights of Ren humping a hand like a pathetic, sex-starved beast. His cheeks burn, and he cries out in confused bliss. 

“Yes, Master, yes!”  


“You’re getting off on this, in front of everyone… you just don’t care how many people see me take you, do you?”  


“No! No! I don’t.” He doesn’t. Not any more. He could holobroadcast it galaxy wide, and Kylo would be both horrified and delighted. Maybe in equal measure.   


“You’re wishing this–” a twist of wrist - “…was my cock, aren’t you? Filling you up, making you scream…”  


Kylo is almost close to insanity, now. Or maybe he is close. Or maybe he’s beyond. He scrabbles through the sticky, cloying floor and tries to shove his ass higher, to look enticing. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

The fingers pull out, and there’s a slap to one ass-cheek. Kylo keens, and then he’s being pulled up onto all fours. Wobbling, he goes where he’s moved, and then his Emperor is behind him. Behind him, and ohoh _please_. He doesn’t deserve it, but he would love it. He so would love it, and when he feels the familiar pressure - the scenario obviously making Hux keener than he normally would be - he’s almost sobbing with happiness. 

Hux doesn’t always fuck him. And when he does, it’s no guarantee he’ll get to come, too. The slow, sure pressure spreading and filling him makes his core settle and spark together. Harder, harder, the fucking taking no prisoners, and the hands on his hips are almost painful. Kylo almost asks for more, but he doesn’t want to appear the masochist he is. The masochist they _both_ know he is.

He doesn’t need to, because there’s a hand in his hair, tugging him back like a bow, and he groans in wounded pleasure at the rough usage. “You think a slut like you is ever good enough to be an Emperor’s wife, do you?”

“ _No_ ,” Kylo admits. “But I w-want to be. I want to be yours. only yours. My Lord, **please**.”  


“You want to be mine? No matter what? You want to be broken? Hated? Torn to shreds?”  


“ _Maker, yes_.” He does. He wants nothing more than to be ripped in two and covered in pain and stuck back together again. “Please, Sir… _please_.”  


“No matter how I use you, no matter how I shatter you in two?”  


“ _Break me, please. I’m yours. I swear, I’m yours, only yours_.”  


“Then prove it, slut.” Hux wraps his other hand around Kylo’s waist, grabbing for his cock and jerking it roughly. “Show me how ready your slutty body is for me. Come, come all over this mess.”  


Kylo doesn’t need telling twice. The stinging pain, the humiliation, the position… the voice, the dick, the moment… he can climax on command most times, but now it’s a pleasure to be allowed to do so, so soon. He howls in low happiness, and is rewarded by a softer grunt from Hux, above, as the contractions of his body milk his Emperor’s own orgasm from him. They come almost in unison, and when they’re done… well. They pant, locked together, and Hux pushes him down and off.

“Consider yourself wed, then. And remember what I do to those who disappoint me.”  


Kylo just… lies. Preening, with sticky mess inside and the soft blur of the room behind him. 

Definitely backed the right one. Definitely. 


End file.
